


we're moving in a technicolor beat

by inkwelled



Series: starmoraweek2018 [4]
Category: Guardians of the Galaxy (Movies)
Genre: A lot of kissing, Alien Cultural Differences, Blood and Injury, F/M, Holidays, Implied Sexual Content, Northern Lights, Not Avengers: Infinity War Part 1 (Movie) Compliant, Post-Movie: Guardians of the Galaxy Vol. 2, Precious Dorks in Love, Self-Sacrifice, Sharing a Bed, They're Cute I'm Sad, Traditions, Worried Gamora, let them be happy, mention of injury, peter is a sap, wearing each other's clothes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-05
Updated: 2018-09-05
Packaged: 2019-07-07 04:08:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,278
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15900591
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inkwelled/pseuds/inkwelled
Summary: day four ; i feel life for the very first time, love in my arms and the sun in my eyes— “you gave me the lights,” she breathes into his mouth, tangling her fingers in the nape of the hair at his neck, longer than he’s ever had it because it’s been months since she’s cut it. peter’s smiling against her mouth, spilling his laughter against her tongue that tastes so sweet she craves it.





	we're moving in a technicolor beat

**Author's Note:**

> title ; [technicolor beat](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=W8fmOciEY8U) by [oh wonder](https://www.azlyrics.com/lyrics/ohwonder/technicolourbeat.html)
> 
> this one is shorter than 3k because i had absolutely no motivation. i put this off all day, and only started working on it seriously a little bit ago. if i'm being honest, this feels?? off?? i'm not totally content with how it turned out but procrastination! yay! 
> 
> anyways, enjoy.
> 
> loosely inspired by [this beautiful piece of starmora art that deserves to be in a museum](http://fennethianell.tumblr.com/post/177020738757/spacerocketbunny-another-starmora-commission-for#notes)

“Tell me about Zen-Whoberi.” 

She looks down at him. “What?” 

Peter is nodding off against her sternum, head pillowed between her chest and stomach. It’s late, the ship quiet around them, and his arms are wrapped around the small of her hips. 

“I like hearing about your childhood,” he whispers, nosing deeper into the too-big shirt they both know she stole from him. She cards her hands through his shower-damp hair and he hums, tightening his arms around her in response. 

“Alright.” 

They’re in-between jobs, jumping from point to point, and she won’t admit it, but this is the time she loves the most. With the Guardians, everything is always moving, chaotic, never-stopping, and she craves moments like this. 

Her own hair, laying against her neck in a thick braid, reminiscent of their shower earlier, still holds the memory of his fingers. It’s no secret between them that the ritual of braiding is sacred, or at least was to her people. 

She remembers the day she told him; three days after they had found Peter floating in space with a dead Yondu in his arms, shivering and sobbing, and she realized she loved him too much to not act on _their unspoken thing._ Gamora had found him laying on the couch facing the large window into space, blankly staring out at the infinite that surrounded them, and had quietly joined him. 

 _He gave me my first blaster, had my leather jacket custom-made,_ he had whispered. She had threaded her fingers through his, silent reassurance, and laid there in silence. 

Leaning heavily on her when his eyelids had started to droop, she helped a limping Peter back to his bunk. His limbs had already been heavy with sleep, shaky with slowly healing cognitive functions when he reached out and asked her, hoarsely, to _stay._

And she had. 

Since then, sleeping in the same bed has become commonplace. It’s been months since then; they have a new ship – so graciously gifted to them by the NovaCorp, how they put up with their reckless crashing of their previous gifts she doesn’t know how – and while it isn’t official, everyone knows. 

Over the course of four months, her clothes and belongings have migrated to his drawers. All of a sudden, his shirts are no longer over the floor, and the bed is made every morning; the corners of the furs pressed tight. She has always known organization, known the consequences that come when Thanos would sweep through the barracks of her and her siblings every morning and find things even _slightly_ out of place. 

It sticks. 

Back reclined against the pillows she had insisted on splurging on after their last payday, she breathes in shakily. Peter’s already mostly gone, just hovering on the edge of sleep, the waves of exhaustion pulling at his eyes, and she can feel it in the undulation of his chest. 

“When I was a child, my favorite holiday was a single day. It happened every year, and I can’t remember the name of it, but I remember the celebrations.” In the dim light of the _Benetar,_ signaling they’re supposed to be sleeping while it’s Drax’s turn to take watch tonight, her voice softens accordingly. 

“Everyone would come together and bring whatever food they had. We were never rich, often went to bed with next-to empty stomachs, but we would scrap together everything we could. Mom would let me wear a dress she once splurged on just for one night a year, and we would wait for the suns to go down.” 

Peter breathes out against her body, cuddling closer, and she hums, content. 

For so long she had bottled up every element of her people, convinced letting even the smallest detail go would mean they would slip away from her, untouchable even in death. So she held them close, refusing to open up in more ways in one, and she had been happy. 

She had been okay with it. 

And then Peter had come along, with his loud noise and quiet silence, reassurance and bluntness and sensitivity that knocked through every wall she had ever erected. No matter how quickly she rebuilt those barricades, he would smile, and they would fall apart. 

Right now, lulled to contentment by the humming of the engines, weighed down by the warm anchor of Peter’s body, she’s glad she let him in. 

“We would wait for hours,” she whispers, scraping the tips of her fingers against his scalp in circles, “until it would grow so cold the candles would go out. So we would dance, alone and with each other, until we were warmed up enough to relight the candles. Sometimes we would wait for hours, but the lights always came.” 

Peter shifts in her arms, silently telling her to go on, he’s listening. 

“It was always worth it. One time, I fell asleep before the lights and when I woke, hours afterwards, I cried for _days._ There was something about my mother’s arms, the people around me, the sky lighting up that made it feel special.” 

Her voice drops, fingers stilling against his skin. “I think it’s what I miss the most.” 

“What I wouldn’t give to see those lights one more time,” she breathes, barely above a whisper, so quiet she’s not sure if she’s heard. Peter has gone still under her arms except for his slow breathing, implying he’s probably drifted off. 

She’s not mad. 

So Gamora kisses the crown of his head, slides herself down underneath him until she’s flat on the mattress and his ear is between her breasts. He’s admitted this is his favorite way to sleep; every part of their body touching, overlapping their arms and hips and legs. 

Quietly, she thinks it’s her favorite way to sleep to. 

Physical contact, something she was once so deprived of, now comes in spades that make her head spin. While Peter communicates his love through words and gestures, she’s more reserved to touch; a brush of hands, kisses across shoulders in passing. 

She stills against the mattress, and Peter breathes in deeply, shifting. His entire body moves against her, muscle to muscle, as she rubs her palms up and down his back beneath the blanket. If not for her body mods, the air beneath the furs would be too hot, so quickly warmed by his high external temperature that is apparently common for humans. 

For once, she’s thankful for her modifications. 

Gamora drifts off. 

. 

She forgets about that night. 

Life after that night is one blow after the next; Peter Is hit on a mission deflecting a shot meant for her and ends up in critical care on Xandar, their ship is stolen, for two months straight there’s no jobs and money grows tight. 

Sleep becomes a foreign thing to her. She spends nights just watching over Peter, taking shifts from everyone else to make sure the wound barely inches from his heart doesn’t become infected. For not the first time, she wishes humans weren’t as fragile as they are; she could’ve taken that shot. 

When she tells him that, pushing back the limp curls on his forehead, ignoring the lack of light behind his eyes and circles that rim them, he coughs that _he’d do it all over again_ before falling back against the sheets. She lays a rag on his forehead, clutches his hand in hers, and prays the fever goes down. 

A month later, he’s limping around. Every breath is a bullet in his lungs, which she understands. According to the healers on Xandar, his left lung had collapsed, filling with fluid almost faster than they could extract it and for almost a minute, his heart had stopped beating. 

So when she holds him against her one night, almost half a year since when she told him about the lights, she’s confused when he whispers against her skin. 

“What?” 

Peter’s ear is pressed against her bare sternum, breath hot against the sensitive skin, She wants to squirm at the sensation, but he had asked quietly if they could sleep skin pressed to skin, and she hadn’t had the heart to say no. 

“Lights,” he mumbles. 

She freezes for a split second. “What about lights?” 

“I found your lights,” he slurs, before promptly falling asleep. 

Gamora blinks. It’s early for him to be sleeping, but she can’t seem to care in the moment. She’s shirtless, an exposed Peter laying across her abdomen, and his chest heaves against hers. 

_I found your lights._

She pulls him impossibly closer. He’s been touch and go for a while, almost so long she can’t think of a time when he didn’t wince with every breath, legs so shaky from disuse that walking him to the bathroom is a feat. 

When has he found time to find lights? 

 _Her_ lights? 

Gamora had gone back to Zen-Whoberi once, and only once. She had gone silent during a mission, ripped out the locator in the pod and set the coordinates that ran through her blood. 

She had stepped over bones, ruins, tatters of clothing and lives that had been ripped away so quickly, so carelessly. Knowing the communicator on her belt had been vibrating with an incoming message, she had looked around one last time before unraveling the single braid left in her hair. 

Setting down the plain silver bead, she had stepped back into the pod. 

She had never returned. 

. 

“Peter.” 

He ignored her, continuing to type in coordinates she didn’t understand and she sighed. Already strapped into the pod, she watches the fine tremor in his hands, the only sign left of the accident that forced him to relearn how to walk, breathe. 

“Peter.” 

His smile is wide when he turns his head. “Trust me, babe.” 

She hesitates. 

“Remember when I said I found your lights?” 

In a swift moment, the breath in her lungs is gone. “You remember that?” she breathes, and he frowns. 

“Oh course, ‘Mora. I remember every story you tell me, especially the ones about her home.” 

She leans across the space between their seats, cupping his neck to bring him closer. It’s been too long since they’ve kissed like this; deep, slow, taking their time. When he had fallen to the ground with a cut-off cry, blood pooling before he even landed, and had regretted the times she _hadn’t_ kissed him. 

Gamora vows to kiss him every chance she gets. 

“I love you,” she says into his lips, and he smiles. 

Humming, he revs the engine and laughs when she pulls back. “Just wait until we get there.” 

. 

Curiously, they don’t land on Earth. 

Instead, Peter pulls up short, hovering in the atmosphere and she takes a moment to look around. The landscape is cold, desolate, nothing but mountains capped with ice, snow patterned with imprints. 

From here she can’t see what the imprints are, but it’s dark and she’s not trying especially hard. There’s a reason they’re here; she has no clue why except _lights._ There’s no bags in the back, no hint they’re staying in any way. 

“Peter-” 

“Shhh,” he says immediately, already leaning forward. His gaze is trained on the window, watching intently for something she can’t see. “Watch.” 

Something in his voice has her leaning forward as well, and the pod falls silent. For what feels like _hours_ she sits there, waiting, and the only sound is Peter’s watch. He glances at it more often than not as time passes, and she’s about to ask him again why they’re here when his eyes light up. 

“ _Gamora_ ,” he whispers, and she blinks, looking back out the porthole. “I found your lights.” 

She gasps, leaning forward so fast that the straps from the seat dig into her shoulders. All around them, the dark sky is lighting up with colors, vibrant, dancing, and all she can do it watch. 

“Peter,” she marvels. “It’s _beautiful.”_

Greens, blues and purple waver in the sky, contrasting so beautifully against each other but blending in a dance she recognizes. It’s her, it’s him, it’s them, and she presses hand to the cold glass. She’s so captivated by the sight, and she doesn’t feel Peter’s hand on her shoulder until he lays his palm next to hers. 

“Happy holiday, ‘Mora.” 

When she reaches up to kiss him, he presses back eagerly. She draws him into her lap, curling her fingers around his thighs to pull him tight against her. Through his shirt, through the gapped hem of his jacket, she lays her palm over the raised scar that splits across his left pectoral. 

“You gave me the lights,” she breathes into his mouth, tangling her fingers in the nape of the hair at his neck, longer than he’s ever had it because it’s been months since she’s cut it. Peter’s smiling against her mouth, spilling his laughter against her tongue that tastes so sweet she craves it. 

So they kiss and kiss and kiss under the Northern Lights, and when they dock back at the ship, she kisses him again before the door opens. It’s no struggle to get him into their room, to peel back their layers and kiss every inch of skin. 

Her hand guides him gently back into the furs, hand trailing over his stomach that caves eagerly under her ministrations. She giggles into her mouth when his back bows into her fingertips, and she smooths over the lines on his forehead with her lips. 

“Thank you,” she whispers afterwards, when he curls around her back. He brushes her hair to the side, pressing open-mouthed kisses to the slope of her neck, she’s able to feel his smile against her skin. 

“For you, darling, anything.”

**Author's Note:**

> i don't know how to end a fic except with two characters kissing, falling asleep, or one of them dying ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ sorry not sorry
> 
> i'm always yelling about starmora on my [twitter](https://twitter.com/starrymora) and [tumblr](http://nymphrea.tumblr.com/) so feel free to join me


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